| The last time I saw you was down at the Greeks
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| There was whiskey on Sunday and tears on our cheeks
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| You sang me a song that was pure as the breeze
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| Blowing up the road to Glenaveigh
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| I sat for a while at the cross at Finnoe
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| Where young lovers would meet when the flowers were in bloom
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| Heard the men coming home from the fair at Shinrone
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| Their hearts in Tipperary wherever they go
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| Take my hand and dry your tears, babe
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| Take my hand, forget your fears, babe
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| There’s no pain, there’s no more sorrow
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| They’ve all gone, gone in the years, babe
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| I sat for a while by the gap in the wall
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| Found a rusty tin can and an old hurley ball
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| Heard the cards being dealt and the rosary called
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| And a fiddle playing Sean Dún na Gall
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| And then next time I see you we’ll be down at the Greeks
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| There’ll be whiskey on Sunday on tears on our cheeks
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| For it’s stupid to laugh and it’s useless to bawl
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| 'Bout a rusty tin can and an old hurley ball
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| Take my hand and dry your tears, babe
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| Take my hand, forget your fears, babe
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| There’s no pain, there’s no more sorrow
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| They’ve all gone, gone in the years, babe
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| So I walked as day was dawning
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| Where small birds sang and leaves were falling
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| Where we once watched the rowboats landing
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| On the broad majestic Shannon |